Page 35 of The Vampire's Guide to Wooing a Curator
“Mr. Drake’s orders,” Mr. Ferris said. “I am not to allow any human to learn the haven’s location.”
Felicity huffed. “That is absurd. Jonathan, tell your driver—”
“He’s right,” Jonathan said. “Mr. Ferris, you are to deliver Miss Sorrow to her townhouse before returning to the haven.”
Felicity must have finally agreed because the next thing he knew, Cordon was carrying him up the steps.
Then the world went black.
When he awoke again, he was lying in his bed with his neck bandaged. He had dreamed of Felicity, her body soft against his, her lips caressing his skin, her blood dripping down his throat. His body insistently reminded him she was a most attractive woman.
It had been mere hours since he’d anticipated making her suffer, but his revenge would have to wait now that he knew the vampire she sought was connected to Marguerite. Wormwood had suggested it might be Madame Pearce, the owner of a brothel near the docks, but it would be foolish not to consider the possibility that his own maker was responsible. The way Felicity had described her parents’ attacker matched what he remembered of Marguerite, but it didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have attacked hunters in their own home, nor would she have left Felicity, a witness, alive.
Until he was sure how his maker was involved, he had to stay close to Felicity. The only thing worse than not finding Marguerite would be letting her fall victim to hunters.
He struggled out of his bed, feeling as if he had been run over by a thousand horses’ hooves, then picked up the carafe of blood sitting on the table beside his bed and flicked open the lid. It was cold, but he didn’t care. He downed the whole thing, then licked his lips and waited for relief. Usually, consuming human blood allowed him to heal within seconds. When several minutes passed and he still felt terrible, he peeled the bandages from his neck. They were still sticky and wet, definitely not a good sign. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see the cut, as mirrors were not something he could use. He would have to get someone else to inspect the damage.
There was a rap at the door. Jonathan sighed. “Come in.”
It was Cordon who entered, of course.
“How do you feel?” Cordon asked.
Jonathan shrugged, which was apparently the wrong move because it caused his wound to tear open.
Cordon cursed. “That should have healed by now. Keep pressure on it. I will get Helena.” Then he ran off.
Jonathan stared at the carpet beneath his bare feet, the patterns seeming to blur and then come back into focus, untilthe sound of rapid footfalls warned his brother was returning. He lifted his head as Cordon entered, with Helena on his heels.
She dropped to her knees in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Show me.”
He tilted his head to the side and allowed her to peel back the dressing. The putrid aroma emanating from the injury made him nauseated. Cordon gagged, but Helena remained completely unfazed.
She reached into her pocket and removed a glass vial filled with a hazy, white liquid.
“What is that?” Cordon asked.
She pulled the cork free with her teeth, then lifted it to Jonathan’s mouth. “Distilled blood. I acquired it from Marcus.” She dripped the substance onto Jonathan’s lips. “Drink.”
He shuddered at the soapy taste but forced himself to swallow, then felt the foul concoction wriggling down his throat. A cloying taste clung to his tongue until he scraped it away with his teeth.
“It’s not the best taste,” Helena said. “But it encourages healing.” She removed another vial from her pocket. He groaned.
“None of that!” She curled his fingers around the vial. “Drink this one yourself.”
Somewhat to his surprise, he had the strength to lift his hand to his lips. He tilted his head back and took the contents of the vial like a shot of whiskey.
Helena pursed her lips. “How did you get yourself into such a terrible state?”
He ran his fingers over the unblemished skin of his neck. The crucifix must still have been there, although he could not feel it. Another of the artifact’s tricks. It must also have been invisible to Cordon and Helena, or they would have said something. Hescraped a bit of dried blood from his chin. “I was attacked by another crazed fledgling.”
Cordon uttered a string of words that would have made Felicity blush.
“You were with the hunter, weren’t you?” Helena asked. There was no accusation in her voice, only resignation. Still, he felt the need to defend himself.
“I know what I’m doing.”
Lying to them was easier than admitting his own failure. He had lived for decades longer than Felicity, yet he remained ensnared in her trap.
